


Bury Your Dead Then Yourself

by Hotgothamite (MMS)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Denial, Drugs, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dealing with coming out, ed gets his wish fulfillment, post ep 14, the non-con applied to Ed/isabella not Ed/oz, u guys kinda have to have patience and trust that i will take care of you in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9817334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMS/pseuds/Hotgothamite
Summary: "What had admittedly been an uncertain was now concrete. Isabella is going to give him a happy life."(Isabella is re-animated after ep 14)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am indebted to flux--and--flow and freckledandspectacled for their invaluable editing. They are amazing writers and I am humbled that they would take the time to edit this piece. I told freckledandspectacled my idea for this weeks ago and she was so encouraging and just provided really good guidance! Thank you guys!

 

Edward holds his phone loosely by his ear. He lays on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it rotates in an endless loop; with his other hand, he plays with the spiral phone cord.

“Did you apply for the job? I pulled strings to get that interview for you.”

“I will, Mom,” Edward replies, voice despondent.

“Edward, it’s been four months since your employer died. You were a chief of staff, you shouldn't let that momentum die down.” 

“I’m sorry. I feel very tired out.”

“So you are just not going to apply?”

“I’m not sure I’m up to it yet.”

“You used to have potential. You also used to have ambition,” she pauses, “what's wrong with you?”

Edward hangs up. When he was younger he would have never hung up on her, but age has made him less resilient to putting up with things he’s realized he can’t handle.

He rolls over in his bed and stares at the power outlet for a change. He needs to pee, but he puts off getting up. The room is a mess and smells. He should have hired a maid, but he hates having strangers around. He plans to stay in his pyjamas for the whole day, until Monday rolls around and he has to, by force, get up and pretend to be a person. 

* 

Isabella arrives like all good things and bad: suddenly, and with no warning.

* 

Edward spent a long day working a small job for Babs—he almost didn’t notice Isabella sitting on his front steps when he nears his apartment. Yet there she is, alive, smiling up at him with those full cheeks of hers. She is only slightly improved from when he had last seen her, _dead_ , at the GCPD. Her face is bruised but healing and her hair still has red dye in it. When he hugs her, it feels like the sun thawing the ice after a long, brutal winter.

* 

It's not hard to get used to good things. To melt into each other. When they spend their first night together, it feels as if they haven't skipped a beat. He had forgotten how beguiling she could be. They easily make conversation, and later, they make love.

* 

Isabella doesn't know how she came back to life. All she remembers is that she woke up in some nameless place and was treated by doctors in masks. It doesn't matter much to Edward or Isabella, so they don’t bother investigating the matter. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? 

* 

He loves having her here. He loves coming home to her. Loves how she touches him, how she lets him touch her back. She is perfect for him, really—exactly like him. Similar interests, aesthetic and preferences. She is the only person who tells _him_ riddles and enjoys solving his. He feels like he can trust her. He can take his mask off and be himself with her, tell her everything he had always wanted to share but never could with anyone else. She is _him_ , just as he is _her_ —perfect and made for each other. He feels content and at peace, finally. She is indeed ideal for him. Oswald was right to suffer: the vulture had almost managed to deny him his last chance at happiness. What had _admittedly_ been an uncertain was now concrete. Isabella is going to give him a happy life.

*

Kissing her feels familiar, _safe_. However, he wouldn't necessarily describe it as comfortable. He feels embarrassed about his body, that she won't understand it. Comfort doesn’t matter much. Those instincts to hide himself away are easy to push down when all he has is want. Kissing her is warm and good, and the burden of being himself is lifted off him whenever they are intimate. He would pay any price to feel that lightness.

*

Isabella is curious about the months she missed out on in death. It's a matter of great interest to her. She words questions to best glean how Edward felt. She can’t quite smother a smile down when he recounts how he fell apart. She tries to turn her expression to one of sympathy, kisses his cheek when he tells her how he pushed Oswald into the river. (He omits any of the less heroic details of that day.)

“I love how you would do that for me,” she says with admiration.

“I would do anything for you.”

“He was a horrible little man, wasn't he?” They both laugh.

“I really didn’t make him suffer enough.”

*

Edward knows all the stories Isabella loves. He isn’t as big of a fan of them, or of the couples. Hamlet and Ophelia, Othello and Desdemona. They don’t represent him; he can’t relate to them. He read most of Shakespeare in high school—not for a class, just for fun. He hated dramatic irony, he hated that miscommunication could ruin things. The endings were never satisfactory. Still, Isabella likes them, and he tries to match her enthusiasm when she wants to discuss them. After a while she stops him.

“You don’t have to pretend to like everything I like, Eddie.” 

“If you say so,” he responds, shamed.  

*

“Should I dye my hair back?” she asks one day.

“Back to what?”

“Blonde.”

He should have remembered that.  

“Just let it grow out, you wouldn't want to damage it.”

*

“Your eyes are so pale and green,” he notes.

“You like them?” she asks.

“Yes they're beautiful, just like—nevermind.”

“No, who?”

_Don’t say Oswald. Don’t say Oswald. Say anything else._

“My father.”

_Shit._

“He had green eyes.”

“Did he?” she giggles.

“Yes, but I don’t like talking about him, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“My parents were awful, too.”

Edward smiles and she kisses his forehead.

*

They have a cozy night in. After several glasses of wine, things feel light. It’s easy to laugh. The radio is on and the host briefly mentions the deceased Mayor. They both go quiet.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Edward shakes his head but speaks anyway. “I thought I was safe with him, but he did those _horrible_ things just so that he could date me,” he says with disgust, still shaking his head.

“It happens, Ed—it’s not your fault.”

“It just...it _always_ happens to me. I had never had a friend that valued me, and it felt like he would always treat me well. I was so wrong. I almost lost out on the chance to be with you because of him. I would have been totally alone.”

“But you didn’t end up alone.”

“I was betrayed! He looked me in the eye after I saw your dead body on a slab and told me he would do anything for me. All while knowing he was responsible for my pain. So he could woo me. I feel repulsed with myself—for caring about your murderer. That pain doesn't go away.”

“It sounds like this is about more than Oswald.”

“I-I don’t know.” He kisses her so he won’t have to keep talking.

*

Everything has its purpose and its place, so it can be labeled and then cataloged away. Disparate things can be put into order. So can Edward. Since his first day at school, the other children sized him up. He wasn’t man enough, he was a loser, a creep, a psychopath.

Oswald always told him that labels and standards were garbage, that he didn’t follow them. He made it to the top in sequins and feathers. _Ed—subvert expectations,_ Oswald had told him. But everything has its place. Oswald’s is rightfully at the bottom of the Gotham River.

* 

It’s easier to be The Riddler since Isabella’s return. His confidence has doubled. He pulls off heists and excels at throwing the city into mayhem. He spends entire days out working and still comes back home feeling invigorated, when before he just felt exhaustion.

*

One time Edward and Oswald had gone jewelry shopping, Oswald had told him: _Ed, don’t bother with anything gold-coated unless you eventually want to see the metal underneath._ He gave the advice with conviction, like he was talking about more than just jewelry. Still, Edward heeded his advice and walked out of the store with pure gold cufflinks with emerald settings.

*

It's easy to accept criticism when you believe the worst in yourself. It had been about a month since Isabella first arrived that she asked Edward to change. And he can’t deny that he had hoped she wouldn’t want that out of him. It's a disappointing blow. It’s nothing big, she says lightly, and assures him it's worth it if he loves her. Each change she asks of his is ‘nothing big’—she always promises that, as the list grows.

*

Isabella kisses Edward’s neck. He moans underneath her. They had been kissing for a luxurious amount of time and Edward is ready for more, for something different. He takes her hand and sucks on her fingers, getting them slick with saliva before leading her hand past his package, toward his entrance.

“Could you use your fingers in me?” he asks, voice husky.

He feels Isabella pull her hand away. “I’m not putting my fingers in there! Why would you even want that?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

She looks at him, wide eyed and horrified.

 _That isn’t a good reaction,_ he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” he holds his hands up and skirts closer to the headboard, “I’m so sorry.”

*

They walk down the street when Edward spots a large puppy on a leash. He gets the owner’s permission and kneels down to pet the animal. The puppy is so soft. Edward is in awe that such a cute animal would enjoy his attention, let alone allow itself to be petted by him. When Edward gets back up, he turns to look at Isabella with a goofy smile on his face.

“What a good dog!”

“Hmm.” Isabella pointedly avoids the puppy as it passes by her feet.

“Do you not like dogs?” Edward asks, genuinely dumbfounded.

“I don’t like animals in general,” she says once the dog owner has walked away.

“Really?”

“I never have; actually, I hate them. I would stick live crickets in the freezer with my friends, things like that.”

“Oh.”

“Didn’t every kid do stupid things like that?”

“I-I don’t know, I didn’t get out much.” In truth, Edward often went out of his way to remove spiders from his apartment unharmed.

“Can I tell you something I haven't told anyone?”

“Always, my love.”

“I grew up on a farm. Our horse got terribly sick, and my whole family was so sad, except for me. The veterinarian said we had to put her down. My sister cried but I remember feeling quite... _satisfied,_ watching it happen.”

“You were happy your horse was dying?” Edward asks, trying to sound neutral.

“Not that, I think I enjoyed that it was up to me in a way, if she lived or died. I ended up having to make the choice, after all.”

Edward opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t quite know what to say. “I wouldn’t want to be in that horse’s shoes,” he laughs lamley. Isabella quickly changes the subject after that.

It shouldn’t have nagged at him. He enjoyed _killing people_ , but it did bother him. A lot. The sadistic pleasure of hurting those weaker than you? It hit a little too close to home.

*

He starts crying more than he laughs and they fight every night. It’s always something he has done or said. He doesn’t know what to do, how to make it stop. He just wants to stop being such a disappointment.

*

He stops playing the piano or video games. When he comes home, he lays on his bed and stares up at the ceiling fan for hours. He doesn't have the energy to get up or even roll onto his side. Even the idea of watching TV seems exhausting. By nine at night he starts looking forward to going to sleep. Isabella complains but after a glass of wine and a few sleeping pills not even she can keep him up. Sometimes he wonders what she does to his body when he is knocked out like that and is horrified that he would even consider she would have it in her to violate him in that way.

*

After a while he wants it. Wants to be told how awful he is. Wants to be yelled at. It's familiar, it's home.  

*

“Isabella, do you have friends?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

“Do you want any?”

“Not really.”

*

The fact is, that it _does_ bother him that he doesn’t have any friends. How the children taunted him. At the time he consoled himself thinking he would have a better life than they would, because he was smarter, better and he would have a great career. That isn't quite true, even now, is it? Unlike him, they had happy childhoods. Perhaps even they have good careers and happy lives now. People don’t change. Edward still doesn't have a single friend. Not even a body in a grave he can lay flowers over.

*

It's the little details that make it impossible to forget.

_Naturally._

The tiny red dots on Oswald’s tie. How the raindrops had clung to his own glasses. The mascara conspicuously missing from Oswald’s blond lashes. That cold shiver he couldn’t stop when he watched Oswald sink.

*

Oswald’s body never washes up on any shore and it's such a nagging thought.

*

Everyone is familiar with regret. It’s leaving a full cup precariously on the arm of a sofa. Not checking your coat pocket for your keys before leaving. Not writing down an assignment and forgetting it. Calling someone you shouldn’t after midnight.

However, breaking a cup doesn't begin to prepare you for what it feels like to snuff the life out of someone you don’t… _not_ love.

*

He doesn't pretend that everything is alright. He tells anyone who will listen how Isabella treats him. Wants the sympathy, because he isn’t getting any at home. He would never leave her, which is invariably what they suggest. Why would he? He is the problem. Everyone would treat him as Isabella does. Besides, who else would be left to love him?

*

Isabella comes home early from the library one evening, which is why she catches Edward putting on her make up in the bathroom vanity. He has some shimmering highlighter on the high points of his cheeks and is currently engrossed in blending eyeshadow into his lids. He holds a compact in front of his face, his eyes flickering between the compact’s mirror and the larger vanity mirror to check the symmetry of his eyeshadow.  He admires how pretty he looks. He wants to feel that way tonight.

“Having fun playing with my new palette?” Isabella asks. Clearly surprised by Isabella, Edward jumps, dropping the brush and compact. Fear and embarrassment flash through his face.  

“Isabella! I am _so_ sorry, I should have asked before using your things.”

“No, it's fine.” She walks toward him. “Let me take a good look at you,” she lifts his chin up and removes his glasses, “you did a good job.”

“I did?” he looks up at her, hopeful.

“That is a very well-blended smoky eye.” She pats his arm, turns around to stand behind him and looks at his reflection. “I don’t like it, though. You should wash your face before we have to leave for our reservation,” she suggests smoothly.

Edward looks away.  “Of course… I was going to.”

“You just look more handsome without it.”

“Check.” He reaches toward the makeup wipes and waits to exhale until she finally leaves the bathroom. He gives his face one final look before he wipes all the makeup off.

*

On their date, after dessert, Edward downs two sleeping pills just to avoid having to get fucked by her later that night. He plays with his emerald cufflinks as he impatiently waits for the check.

*

Edward dreams about him. They stand in Edward’s childhood bedroom, leaning against his drafting table. Cool morning light illuminates Oswald as he leans towards Edward’s face. Edward wants this. Oswald’s hand rests on Ed’s neck and he asks permission, which is granted, before leaning in. Edward shouldn’t remember those details, but he easily catalogs them. How he feels about the long kiss is tentatively out of his reach. When they pull away, blood is dripping out of Oswald’s nose, _or was it his stomach?_

“I need an ambulance.”

Oswald hangs onto Edward’s shoulder. Edward dials 911 and pleads for an ambulance to come. There is an issue, or he can’t understand the language the operator speaks in. Either way, Edward is distressed, and he has the clear understanding that Oswald will die without a doctor. He helps Oswald through his childhood home. His parents, people he doesn’t even know ask what’s wrong. He tells them to get out of his way. He _might_ have told them that his boyfriend is dying (and certainly regretted using such a label).

When he reaches his front yard he helps Oswald into the back seat of a car and for no logical reason gets in the back with him. Edward’s attention is brought out of his anxiety for Oswald’s dwindling health when he notices the car move on its own. He looks to the empty front seat; a pair of keys hang out of the ignition.

“I really need an ambulance, Eddie.”

Edward knows this was very bad. He panics. Tries to move toward the front seat but his body won’t move forward more than a few inches. He is keenly aware of his longing for Oswald and desire to save him. The car makes its way downhill. Edward’s body remains frustratingly and illogically immobilized, as if he were drugged. He tries to fight his body’s crying need to shut down but fails. He isn’t going to be able to reach the keys. The car accelerates on its way down, consuming Edward with white hot panic.

He wakes up in bed next to Isabella.

His body shakes, and after a few moments of labored breathing he realizes he’s freezing from the cold sweat that has soiled his clothes. Disoriented, he clumsily makes his way to the bathroom. He changes his clothes and runs his hands under warm water.

 _No regrets_ , he chants until he feels safe enough to try and sleep again.

*

Isabella finds a tiny coat that had obviously belonged to Oswald. The gold glitter was damning proof. It had been hidden in the back of Edward’s closet where he hoped it would go undiscovered.

“If it doesn't matter to you, then you won’t mind if I cut it in half.”

It was some sick Herod’s test that he wanted to pass, so he nods.

Tears roll down his cheeks as she cuts the coat with kitchen shears. Glitter floats through the air, catching the dim light while she cuts the garment. She leaves the two halves on the bed. He stares at them, impassive.

“Don’t worry, you just miss him because he’s dead. If he were alive, you would have already forgotten all about him.”

“I do not miss him.”

*

He finds glitter in the apartment for weeks afterward. Each time he finds a gold flake… it’s like not wearing gloves in the winter, your fingertips get painfully numb. Then once your skin is brittle and dry from the cold air, your hands somehow end up with multiple tiny cuts from the damage.

*

Edward waits in line at a bakery. He wants a warm croissant and coffee. As terrible as it sounds, he doesn’t want to still be in the apartment when Isabella wakes up.

The man in front of him is yelling at the cashier. It's not a normal scuffle, it’s that type of inconsiderate person that you know is rude to everyone in the service industry. Edward knows this type of person; they are unpleasant with everyone in their life. Their co-workers, wife, and _kids_. Some people are just like that.

Perhaps Edward is worse than that. He isn’t just rude, he has _killed_ people he was close to. It's a terrible feeling: to know that you can’t turn it off, that you can’t reserve kindness for those close to you, that you are a monster indiscriminately. He doesn’t want to be that person, and it terrifies him that he is. He is suddenly light-headed and he isn’t sure his legs will hold him up much longer.

Mercifully, the man in front of him is placated by the manager and leaves. Edward is finally able to order his food and then waits at a nearby table. Soon, a kind waitress brings him his order. He sips his coffee and picks at his croissant; he stares at the snow falling out the window. He doesn't realize he is hyperventilating until the person sitting in the table next to him asks if something is wrong.

“I-I don’t know.”

Edward follows the stranger’s gaze, to where it falls on his hand. His hold on his coffee cup is shaky and quite a bit of the beverage has spilled on the the saucer. He isn’t sure what is wrong with him, to be honest, and it’s terrifying.

*

When he hears that a club named the Iceberg Lounge has opened, he is almost certain that it has to be Oswald. He doesn't even have to battle with the idea that Oswald may be alive. Of course he would be, and of course he would just come back to Gotham and open up a nightclub. Not that it mattered. It didn’t matter. Edward certainly wasn’t going to waste his time checking. He would _not_ be going to the club.

*

Edward goes to the club.

*

In high school, his political science teacher told him that when you lose a bit of integrity, it becomes all the more precious to you. Once you feel how terrible it feels to lose it, you make the effort to never lose any more of it.

*

At the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald sits in the kitchen overseeing the club’s menu when Gabe interrupts him.

“Boss, we caught an intruder trying to sneak into your office. You wanna talk to him yourself?”

Oswald’s once relaxed expression turns icy. “Bring the scoundrel in.”

A moment later his henchmen drag a tall, spindly man into the kitchen, surprising both men in equal measure.

“Oswald?” Edward gasped.

“Edward?”

“You're alive, how-how...”

“I’m a good swimmer.” Oswald turns to address his staff. “Leave us.”

Once the staff leaves, Edward strides toward Oswald menacingly.

“You have been alive this whole time and you didn’t think _once_ to tell me?” he says, holding up one digit to gesticulate his point.

“What?” Oswald expected a lot of things from his first meeting with Edward, but not for Edward to be upset that he hadn’t called.  

“You could have said something.”

“Why? So you could try your hand at shooting me again?”

“It’s been half a year.”

“You keep quite the grudge, Eddie. How was I to know you would want to hear from me?” 

“How can you sa—how are you?”

“ _How am I?_ Well, a little worse for wear, Edward. How are you?” he asks with a sarcastic edge.

“Why-why are you in Gotham?” Edward asks, ignoring Oswald’s question.

“Opening a club.” He gestures to the room around him. “ _Hello?_ ”

“Please. You ambition is unquenchable.”

“I just want to be a mob boss that owns a club. A slow-paced life.”  

“Fine.”

There is a long moment of awkward silence before Oswald softly asks, “Are you happy?”  

“I-I don’t know.”

“Ah.”

“Isabella came back to life.”

Oswald blinks rapidly, his mouth falling open slightly.

“I think it goes without saying that if you harm her—” Edward starts.

“Then why are you saying it?”

Edward just glares at him.

“Tell me why you broke into here.”

“To confirm you were alive.”

“Well, you have. So, if you have no further business, I suggest you take your leave.”

Edward looks at Oswald, searching for more. “Your tie is hideous.” With that, he leaves. Oswald feels very stupid when he catches his hand subconsciously tugging at the offending tie.

*

Isabella tightens her hold around Edward’s neck.

“Tell me you love me more than her.”

It wasn’t her first time asking this, in this particular way.

“Yes,” he says with effort. He loves her more than Kristen. They are not the same person. This is where he belongs. Underneath her.

“Tell me you love me more than him.”

Edward's eyes widen and he pushes Isabella off. “Of course! I am not gay!” he fumes.

“I know that, I meant as a friend.”

“Oh,” he looks down in confusion, “you shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” she chastises.

“I’m not!”

“Come back here.”

He allows her to drag him back into a hug. “Tell me you're mine.”

“Completely,” he says, body going limp against hers.

*

Edward can’t imagine fucking someone of the same gender. Of course, he has to imagine fucking Oswald just to make sure.

He isn’t sure.

*

“I don’t want to kill you,” Edward announces as he barges into Oswald’s office one morning.

“Ed—”

“I just want you to know that.”

  
“Now I do.”

“You got your punishment. We have both paid a pound of flesh.”

“That we have.”

“You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

“I have been doing exactly that.”

“I suppose that's true. Glad we got that sorted out.” Edward makes his way to leave.

“Ed, wait. I never apologized, not really. I’m sorry, I truly am. I never wanted to hurt or betray you, you must believe that?”

“I believe you are sorry.”

“I don’t really want to stay out of your way, I mean, it would be nice if we saw each other once in awhile, on purpose.”

Edward chuckles. “Thats a nice thought, but I would rather chew on glass.”

“I see.”

“Goodbye, Oswald.”

*

Edward has a hard time sleeping at night. All his intrusive thoughts compete for attention. Of the many little quiet voices, the one that has grown unbearable is the loud demand to know how Isabella came back to life.

*

“Do you remember anything from when you were brought back to life?”

“We have been over this, Edward. No.”

“No details about the doctors?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t—why does it matter?”

“I suppose it doesn't,” he shrugs.

*

Edward finds himself in the morgue that had kept Isabella’s body. There had never been a funeral, and he had been too caught up with revenge to arrange anything, so her body, _he had thought_ , had stayed in the city morgue. It isn’t hard to find the weakest link in the operation and when Edward does, he hands the mortician a few crisp Benjamins that makes him spill everything. In a stuttering voice, the mortician recounts that the ex-mayor had been the one to take the body, along with some of his muscle. They had taken the body months ago, at least a few before Isabella had arrived at Edward’s doorstep. The ex-mayor had made it worth the mortician’s while to stay quiet with cash and an unimaginative string of threats.

“Why would he take her body?” Edward asks out loud, mostly to himself. Not for the first time, Oswald has completely and utterly confounded him.

*  

Edward knows that Oswald doesn't have the skill to bring Isabella back, but he has an idea of a mutual acquaintance who might, which is why he sits down with Strange.

“You're not a fan of me, Mr. Nygma, so what do I owe this visit to?”

“You worked on Isabella, didn’t you?”

Strange smiles and blinks hard.

“Why? Why did Oswald bring her to you? He hates you and he can’t even remember Isabella’s name.”

Strange smiles pleasantly, his eyes crinkle behind his rose-tinted glasses. “It would bother you, wouldn’t it? If Oswald did it just to make you happy.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Edward says with confidence.

“He brought her body over and paid a handsome amount to have her brought back with her memories intact. He gave special instruction for her to be delivered to you. It was… interesting.”

“That's it? He didn’t say why?”

“Mr. Nygma, you once boldly boasted that you could solve people like a puzzle. His motivations are elementary.”

“He stood to gain nothing. He didn’t even tell me.”

“Sometimes the act of giving is rewarding enough.”

“You worked on Oswald, you really think that would satiate him?”

“He told me a story about his childhood—”

“Willingly?” Edward knew the grisly practices Strange has used on Oswald.

Strange laughs dismissively. “As you may well already know, Oswald was the breadwinner in his household since his early teens. A responsibility he took very seriously. You can imagine the type of jobs he worked. At one point his mother began to court a man. She was smitten. Oswald, however, knew he was crooked. The man stole from his mother’s wallet, as well as heirlooms from their apartment, to pawn them. Oswald had a conundrum: to let his mother be happy and feel loved, but live a lie, or expose her suitor for what he was. What option do you think he chose?”

Edward shrugs. “Neither, he probably just cut the sucker’s brake wires.”

“He replaced all the money the suitor had stolen before his mother noticed it was gone, he got the heirlooms back from the pawnshop. When her suitor did finally leave, Oswald forced him to write her an apology letter.”

Ed’s expression remains impassive.

“Isabella, Mr. Nygma, in psychological terms, is both a present and an act of service.”

*

He doesn’t know what that means. What it _changes_. He just knows things aren’t the same.

*

Back when they had lived together in the mansion, Oswald had opened up to Edward about the crush he had had on Jim Gordon. Edward was equally curious as he was uncomfortable. Jim was probably his biggest enemy; he wasn’t thrilled that his best friend thought so highly of the man.

“I’m sorry, I know you hate him, but he saved my life,” Oswald said apologetically.

“Don’t apologize, just because I have a grudge doesn't mean you need to as well.” That seemed like the right thing to say.

“Really?” Oswald asked, hopeful.

“Absolutely…” Edward lied. “So you _liked_ him?”

Oswald had giggled, oblivious to how uncomfortable Edward felt. “Yes, I did, not anymore, not for a long time.”

“So that’s your... type?”

Oswald laughed. “What type would that be?”

“Masculine? Conventionally attractive, stoic.”

“I’m into people that save my life? That are kind to me…” he looked at Edward and smiled sweetly.

That should have been a clue, Edward thinks, looking back. Edward had saved his life. Actually saved it, not just spared it like Gordon had.

“I know he wasn’t very nice to me, I know that he thought I was…” Oswald sighed, “well, what everyone thinks of me…” he paused and thought for a moment. “One time I saved him, you know? As well as Barbara and Harvey.”

“ _Really?_ ” Edward leaned forward—he wanted to hear this story. Oswald put a finger in front of his own lips and mock-shushed.

“Keep this a secret. Remember when Falcone put a hit on Jim and Zazz shot up the GCPD?”

Edward nodded.

“I pulled every string to have them saved. It was back when no one knew that I was working for him. It wasn’t in my benefit and it wasn’t easy.”

“Wow, was Jim even grateful?”

Oswald shot him a look that clearly expressed that the answer was ‘ _no._ ’

“Jim didn’t know, I’ve never told him. I want to keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“Because… some things aren’t really favors, if the person you did them for finds out. I didn’t want Jim to feel obligated to me… If he an obligation, then I would never know if he was really my friend for _me_.”

“I suppose… that's true.” Edward looked at Oswald in awe. He felt safe at the time, believing that Oswald would always take care of him, even if he didn’t know it.

*

Edward drives to Oswald’s club shortly after speaking to Strange and gets fantastically drunk. He doesn’t have a plan, he just needs to see Oswald and hope he will know what to say when he does.

Oswald eventually finds him at the bar. Edward asks if they can speak somewhere privately. Once they are in Oswald’s office, Edward pins him to the wall. It seems like the right way to start the conversation. What he wants to say starts formulating now that he has Oswald in front of him.

“How dare you. How dare you to have brought her back.”

“What?”

“You don’t get to just try to make things right. It doesn't work that way, Oswald.” He was getting spit on Oswald’s face from his fury and didn’t care.

“I-I don’t understand. Who told—” Edward grabbed his face, hard.  

“I don’t love you.”  

“I thought it would make you happy.” Oswald lays a shaking hand over the one digging into his face.

“No! Shut up. You hoped I would be thankful, and in your deluded mind you thought we could be friends again. You are a manipulator—you only do what benefits you!”

“That's not true. You weren’t supposed to know.”

“I hate you. I hate you so much for this.” Edward backs away from Oswald and cards a hand through his own hair, ruining its gelled structure.  

“I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong. You loved her. After everything you did to me, I finally understood. You loved her in a way you never could have loved me. I wanted to give back what I took. This was supposed to make things right.”

Edward looks at Oswald, appalled.

“Why did you have to do this?”

“Do what?” Oswald asks, exasperated.

“Prove that I can’t be happy.”

“Ed...”

“It's not working. You knew it wouldn’t work.”

“Why would I think that? Ed, I think you’re… you’re so easy to love.”

“You're lying. You wanted me to be miserable, just like you!”

Oswald frowns, anger forming on his face that he swallows down. “How can I fix this? Tell me what to do!”

“Just stay far away from me.”

*

Isabella has Edward tied to their bed for recreational purposes. As soon as she releases Edward’s constraints, he backs away from her.

“What were you doing—I used my safe word! Twice!”

“Relax darling, I knew you could take more.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“But you did.”

“That's not the point! I thought I would die, you don’t just… ignore me. When I say I can’t take it, I mean it,” he pauses, “I can’t take anymore of _this_ , I want to have normal sex.”

“God, you're always like this lately,” she complains dismissively.  

“If my feelings bother you so much then maybe we shouldn’t be together,” he dares to say.

 _That_ comment she takes seriously and grabs his face. “You are never going to leave me, Edward Nygma, you understand?” She leaves red marks on his face where her fingers dug into his skin.

*

Later that night, Oswald gets a knock on his door. When he checks through his peephole he sees a disheveled Edward outside.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s so late.”

“Ed, come in.” Edward doesn't move to come inside.

“I’m sorry about how I spoke to you last time we met. I shouldn’t treat you that way. It was wrong.”

“I understand. It was a shock, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Forget it.”

“Can I stay over? For tonight?”

*

She can tell the threat isn’t enough. She can tell he is making plans to leave. So she makes plans of her own.

*

When Edward comes back to his apartment after spending the night at Oswald’s, it’s Isabella’s crafts that tip him over the edge. It’s like a switch being turned on, how creepy it all is; how wrong it is. It isn’t flattering anymore. He’s scared of her. Last night he thought he could make it work, now in the morning light, it's so clear that there isn’t anything left to save.  

*

“Do you want your sleeping pills?” Isabella asks as she clears the dinner table that night. Edward yawns.

“Yes, thank you.” He doesn't think anything of it when she hands him two pills instead of the bottle. He downs them with a glass of Moscato and slouches into his chair. He observes how she puts the dishes neatly into the dishwasher. He hasn’t ever broken up with anyone. He hasn’t ever been dumped either, exactly. He doesn't know how this works. She lives with him—does she move out? Or does he?

Isabella dries her hands on the kitchen towel and moves to sit next to Edward.

“I'm so glad I found you, Edward. You are the only man for me.” She cups his face and he notices that his head feels about twenty pounds heavier. The room is spinning suddenly. He feels really drunk. Too drunk for just a bit of wine.

“That was a hell of a bottle,” Edward says, putting his cup down with great difficulty.

She smiles. “I love that wine.”

Edward can’t quite muster the strength to stay upright; he falls forward a bit, holding onto Isabella. “Oh, I’m sorry.” When he speaks the words sound like they are spoken outside of his body. He doesn't think he has ever felt this inebriated before, it's scary.

“You should get to bed before you pass out.” She guides him with great difficulty to the bedroom. He falls on the floor several times and alternates between laughing and crying that he can’t control. He tries to cover his mouth to keep it in. Once he is on the bed, she helps him out of his shoes. _This can’t be normal,_ he thinks.

“You wouldn’t have drugged my wine? Would you?” he asks in a low, feral voice.

“No, you idiot. I just changed your pills.”

The last thing he remembers is not being able to control his weeping, and the nausea that follows a hellish vertigo.

*

He is woken up the next day by bright light streaming through the window. It must have been after noon. He hears birds singing outside. The apartment is empty—Isabella had long left to work at the library. It takes a few minutes for him to regain control of his body. He considers going to Lucius to do some lab work on his blood to figure out what Isabella put into him but discards the idea as useless. It doesn't matter what she drugged him with, just that she would do it at all. When he is finally able to sit up and take the covers off he finds that his body is naked. He looks around and sees his clothes had been cut off and discarded on the floor next to him. He bites down a whimper.

When he stands up, his head spins. He steadies himself on the side table and after a few deep breaths he is able to find his glasses and cell phone. He contemplates who to call, what to say as he makes his way toward the bathroom and turns on the hot water. He listenes to the sound of the shower and it soothes his nerves enough to make a call. Oswald picks up on the second ring.

“Oswald, I’m...” he says in a quavering voice. He can’t quite make out how to explain the situation.

“Ed, what is it?”

“Um. I need to leave my apartment. Now.”

“I’ll be there momentarily, just stay there!”

“Thank you.”

He closes his phone and gets in the shower. By the the time he is dressed and tying his shoelaces Oswald is at his door.

*

“Are you sure about this? We can’t undo this,” Oswald says.

“Yes, I need her completely out of my life.”

*

It was a sunny Wednesday morning when newspapers were delivered to every residence in Gotham. The issue contained all the usual scandal and sensationalism. What was out of the ordinary, to a normal citizen, was that a librarian had been taken into custody for fraud, impersonation, and murder. Pending her conviction, she would be tucked away at Arkham for a very long time.

*

You can sit on a fence for a long time, but your ass will inevitably tire and sore. When you jump off, you have to land on one side or another. What if you want to land on a side you shouldn’t? If there is a no trespassing sign, do you head the warning? What if you never thought you would want to be on that side, but if that were true, would you spend so much time looking at it? The grass did look awfully greener...

*

Oswald holds Edward’s face, tilting it to the side. He then mixes two foundations on the back of his left hand until he is satisfied that the color matches Ed’s skin. He gently applies the sheer foundation on Edward's face, making sure to blend it under his neck.

“Thank you for doing this,” Edward says, careful not to move his mouth too much and disturb Oswald’s work.

“Oh, it's my pleasure,” Oswald smiles. He takes a clean brush, dabbing it into a neutral blush color, and starts to apply it onto Edward’s cheeks.

“You don’t use your hands to apply any of that?” Edward asks carefully.

“Oh, just to blend the concealer.”

Edward nods, disappointed.

After checking that the blush looks harmonious with Edward’s skin, Oswald gets a tiny brush and applies concealer to Edward’s under eye and to a few blemishes. He carefully blends the product into Edward’s skin with his ring finger until his skin is flawless.

“When do you apply the highlighter?”

Oswald laughs softly. “Yes! I’m getting to that! So impatient,” Oswald teases.

He shows Edward his collection of highlighters so he can choose which one he prefers. Edward just tells him to use the strongest one. Oswald grins and goes for a particularly iridescent cream highlighter and carefully brushes it on, admiring how it immediately makes Edward’s cheek bones shine. Once he finishes both cheeks he places Edward’s glasses back on his face and backs away so Edward can see his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Do you like it so far?”

Edward observes himself cautiously and then he looks to Oswald. “Do you?”

“I think you look positively dashing.”

Edward tries to hide his smile. He looks back at his reflection. Oswald is clearly talented with makeup and he can’t help but admire himself. “Is it ok that I like makeup? Am I still good?”

Oswald’s eyes widen, he hastily moves closer to Edward and places a hand on his arm. “Of course! You are so good!” Edward nods before he clears his throat. He reached out for Oswald’s hand and intertwines their fingers.

“It’s just… I’m not sure it's okay to be me,” he says, bowing his head, resting it on Oswald’s shoulder. Oswald rubs circles into Edward’s back with his other hand.  

“It's more than okay. I promise.”

*

Some events seep into you, some _people_ get into you and never let go. Isabella was easy to shake off; his own father, that was another matter, he had left a lasting mark. His words, they clung to Edward tightly like oil on feathers. He had lived his life like those frightened birds caught in petrol spills. He had tried so long to live with it, but he was tired. He was ready to lay down and let himself be scrubbed clean of that dark, viscous oil. Now, when he lays in bed at night and feels Oswald's warm body flush against his back, his hands raking through Ed’s hair, Oswald’s breath next to his ear shushing him, he is filled with something no one else makes him feel: valued and _valuable_.  

*

He can admit that he was wrong. Even after all the violence and brutality— _especially_ after that.  Oswald is his true second chance. A chance to be himself, a chance to know someone and be known back with such unapologetic authenticity. Of course, it was a second chance at love as well, and god, did he love Oswald. So what that he isn’t straight, so what that he isn’t normal? _What a far more beautiful thing that life has in store for me,_ he thinks every time he is graced by Oswald’s smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok I hope you enjoyed that. I knew I HAD to write this after I watched ep 14. It was very cathartic to write this and I put a lot of myself into writing Ed. Let me know your thoughts. c:


End file.
